


Hey Hombre!

by CollingwoodGirl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Accidental fondling, F/M, I'm easily led, Missing Scene, Murder Most Scandalous, The Alcove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5098571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollingwoodGirl/pseuds/CollingwoodGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU version of what happens after Phryne and Jack share their moment in the Imperial Club's alcove.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Hombre!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RakishAngle (afterdinnerminx)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterdinnerminx/gifts), [PlayfulMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlayfulMay/gifts).



> Egged on by two shameless Lovelies, we came up with the following mandatory plot points for Alcove Smut after a re-watch of Murder Most Scandalous:  
> *Jack and Phryne get stuck in the alcove  
> *Their clothes catch  
> *Jack accidentally brushes something (ahem)  
> *She asks him about the fan dance  
> *A feather materializes
> 
> I hope I did justice by it. And I think it could work as a believable AU that fits into the Season. (Especially as Jack is so incredibly put out by the bedding of Warrick Hamilton in the next episode.) Feel free to let me know either way. It's been a while since I've drabbled and I could use the feedback! Thanks for reading!

 

 

She looked down into his face, saw the earnestness in the foreground of his expression, his longing blurred in the distance by the respect he held for her. The petals of her lips curled into a tight bud. She wanted so badly to kiss him. But they had a lead in the case and were drawing closer to discovering the identity of Lavinia's killer. She had to pursue it.

"Give me a good head start?"

"As always."

There was no spite in his words. No bitterness. Only a playful reverence that made her wish for an excuse to remain perched on his lap with his hands heavy about her waist, to torment him a bit longer.

Reluctantly, she pulled firmly away, perhaps dragging herself a bit unnecessarily along the tops of his thighs. It had been some time since she had encountered any as remarkably well built as the Inspector's.

Relieved of his burden, in more ways than one, Jack's hands flew to his collar. The compulsion to straighten the silk and press the knot of his tie firmly against the one in his throat was overwhelming. He drew a deep, shuddering breath to calm his body. His heart was racing and his ignoble thoughts were manifesting themselves in his trousers. _Steady on, man!_ he chastised himself. _You've been to war, for Christ's sake._

\-----------------------------

Phryne makes it only a few steps past the drop of the alcove's velvet curtain where she halts at the sizeable frame of a hulking man speaking to the proprietress.

"I applaud your exquisite taste, Mister Ratcliff. But Ms. Lorita is entertaining another guest at the moment."

"If she's here, she's mine!" he demands, stubbing a fat finger into the palm of his other hand.

The warning glance Madame Lyon shoots over the brute's shoulder freezes Phryne to the spot. But it is too late. The man called Ratcliff spins in an ungainly fashion on bowed legs to see his prize before him. He leers, exposing several gold teeth.

"See? The Señorita's right here waiting for me."

"Buenos noches," Phryne simpers as Lulu, before addressing herself to Madame Lyon. "Señora, zees man in zhere? Ee say ee want me zee chole night. Eez okay, jes?"

Madame Lyon nods her approval but Ratcliff throws out an arm, grabbing for Phryne's wrist.

Two tuxedoed men make a beeline for Madame Lyon, revolvers glinting at their hips. Even with the hired help coming to their aid, it takes all of Phryne's willpower to allow herself to be caught.

"Hwhat eez zees?" she demands, scowling at the shabby treatment.

The two bouncers move to flank Madame Lyon, who holds her client's gaze steadily. She softly places two fingers on Ratcliff's forearm.

"Harold, if you expect to retain your membership here, you will not manhandle my girls."

Ratcliff releases Phryne though he does not exactly look sorry.

"You know the club rules," Madame Lyon continues, dismissing Phryne with a wave of her hand, "First come, first serve... barring any special arrangements. Ms. Lorita has been spoken for."

As Phryne retreats to the alcove, she strains to hear Madame Lyon offer him a drink on the house. She feels the man's eyes on her the entire time.

Jack, who had just managed to rein his body back under his control, jumps when Phryne reappears and snaps the curtains behind her. "Why are you still here?" he hisses.

"Change of plans, Jack," she explains vaguely while shucking off her hat and wrap. Hearing the clinking of glasses just outside, she forcibly seats him back on the chaise. "It seems I've put us two steps behind this time."

As Phryne expects, a scantily clad waitress soon steps into the room, eyes averted, and sets a small silver tray on an end table. Two fine crystal tumblers of cognac sit up expectantly, one cushioned by a handwritten note. The young waitress looks between the two of them for a moment and then hands the first tumbler to Jack and the second, bearing the note, to Phryne, who wastes no time reading it.

"Pleez tell heem, Gracias!" she sings. The waitress nods and leaves without a word.

When they are alone once more, Phryne hands the note to Jack.

" 'Please forgive my earlier presumption. Though, I do still hope to meet you sooner than later. Fondly, H.R.' What does that mean?"

"It means, I wouldn't drink that cognac if I were you."

Jack is aghast. "Poison?"

"Nothing as lethal as that." She considers the way the server hesitated, trying to remember which drink should be served to whom. "Probably just sleeping powders. There is a man out there who seems rather determined that I should be his date for the evening."

"You've made quite a name for yourself, Miss Fisher. How did you manage to talk your way out of it this far?"

"Easy, Jack. I said I was already _your_ date for the evening," she drawls, easing the glass from his hand before it falls to the floor. "We'll have to keep up appearances a little longer, I'm afraid."

The Inspector's mind begins to race alongside his pulse as he questions the endurance of his self-control. "Nonsense! We may be stuck here for longer than planned but that's no reason we have to pretend..."

"Who's pretending?" she retorts, fixing him with a smoldering look. But the worry lines creasing his forehead give her pause. She tries again, this time appealing to the policeman. "Jack, if we're discovered, it would be very bad for the Imperial Club."

"One less brothel?" he cheeks, throwing her words back at her, desperate for distraction.

She levels a smirk at him. "Perhaps. But it could also mean one less Detective Inspector. I have no doubt that Madame Lyon would try to ruin you if our failed attempt spelled the club's demise. At the very least, we'll lose our chance to catch Lavinia's killer."

He knows she is right, but resisting her is a matter of self-preservation. "How would anyone even know what we're doing in here, Phryne?" The materialization of her name betrays his frustration.

She sidles closer to him, fingering the lapel of his suit. "For one thing, Madame Lyon does seem to care for the safety of her girls. I imagine she has methods of checking in to ensure we are being treated appropriately. For another... in these kinds of places, Jack... not everyone likes to participate... Some like to watch."

His mouth closes with a soft click of teeth. How long it had been open he could not say, but it was long enough for Phryne to search out her discarded hat and pluck something from the band.

"Speaking of watching, Jack..."

 _Stop saying my name!_ He ruthlessly thinks that she is doing it on purpose. That she knows how much it tortures him to hear her say it that way. She is. She does. His eyes close against her, but it can't shield his body from her warm weight as she sinks slowly onto his lap, the slink of her fingertips curling over the tops of his shoulders.

When he believes he has summoned enough resolve to meet her in this game, he finds her looking down at him with darkened eyes, her red mouth curled in amusement, and is certain he has already lost.

"You never did tell me what you thought of my fan dance."

He refuses to answer.

"I know you're a grown man, Inspector, unmoved by 'the sight of a little bare flesh.' But I did dare to hope it might have made an impression." Her tongue lilts innocently over the words as her eyes glitter with mischief.

He schools his features into a blank slate, as a solicitous fingernail grazes his earlobe, and wonders how long he can hold on before she breaks him.

"Nothing? Was it so pedestrian, you've already forgotten? I take full blame for that. There wasn't much time to rehearse. But the costume really was exquisite. Some of Dot's best work... Are you certain you don't recall?"

He ruffles, feeling a drop of sweat trail past his temple, and prays she doesn't suspect that the placement of every last diamanté has been forged in his mind for eternity.

"We're investigating a murder, Miss Fisher. I have placed my former father-in-law in police custody and am under considerable pressure from the newspapers, the public, and, not least of all, the Chief Commissioner. I'm sure you'll forgive me if I don't remember your brief foray into burlesque." He cocks his head and levels a well-used dour expression that he hopes will put an end to the matter.

"Perhaps this will jog your memory, Jack?" Between her forefinger and thumb, she holds the small black feather which, until recently, adorned her hat. She really is a devil.

She traces it teasingly across his jaw, tickling the soft, sensitive skin under his chin.

"Stop that," he growls, fingertips flexing into the cushion of the chaise.

"No," she breathes, captivated by the dangerous look in his eyes. "I think it's coming back to you now, Jack." She drags the feather lightly down his neck, dips it beneath his collar, flutters it against his bobbing adam's apple. "Tell me what you thought of my fan dance."

His fingers close around her wrist, but the expression he wears now tells her he is ready to bargain. She drops the feather. He clears his throat and she feels his muscles stutter beneath her.

"Put it this way, when you tire of private detecting, a thriving career as a showgirl awaits." He attempts a look of censure, but realizes too late that his thumb is revealing his true thoughts by tracing slow circles in her palm.

"So you do remember..." She tries to imagine seeing herself on stage through Jack's eyes. "...Everything?"

"Everything."

"Why the subterfuge? Were you nervous about facing me... afterward?"

Jack recognizes an interrogation when he hears one. But in having her this close, the smell of her lipstick, lust, and perfume intoxicating his blood, her sultry voice sending shivers down his spine, he finds himself confessing more than he should.

"It wasn't your face that gave me pause, Miss Fisher."

He brushes her cheek with his knuckles. His aquamarine eyes are shot through with grey, his cheekbones sharpened with tension. She cannot hide the hitch in her breath.

"You found it... provocative, then?"

"That's quite the understatement."

"Did you enjoy it, Jack? Watching me perform?"

"At times... Yes," he replies huskily, "When I could imagine it was only the two of us." His own voice is almost unrecognizable to his ears.

A sudden nudge to the alcove's curtains distracts him. He leans closer to whisper his belief that someone is taking an interest in their activities. She nods understanding and takes a sidelong glance at the sliver of floor visible beneath the coverings. A shadow confirms they have company. She pulls his hands to her hips and feels his hesitation in his muscles, coiled and tense.

"Well, I'm yours tonight." Her lips tease the shell of his ear as her words tease his cautious nature. "It will blow our cover if it doesn't look like you want me, Jack."

Jack thinks he would love nothing more than to deny he feels anything at all for her, but,when she takes his lobe into her lips, he is unable to stifle the groan that vibrates deep within his chest. The ferocity of her grin, upon hearing that sound, should be enough to scare him senseless but it only serves to enflame the battle brewing between his body and his better judgment.

"Poor man. I know it must be  _hard_  for you." Clever fingers loosen his tie and collar. Her lips singe the newly exposed skin, tinging the bordering ivory cotton with waxy red smudges.

He wants to suck her tongue into his mouth, give it the edge of his teeth, punish it. Whether for the taunts or attention, her wicked tongue is to blame. But he doesn't dare. He curses her name instead.

"But Jack," she protests, her mouth sliding hotly down his neck, "It's only fair. You've already had your mouth full."

She nudges closer, tilting her pelvis into him, hands sliding under the shoulders of his suit jacket. Jack grips her waist tightly and pushes her back. They do a dance, a tug of war. A tug of wills. They move in counter revolutions. Counter intuitive to his need. But the illusion is uncanny. In attempting to prevent what he desires most, he succeeds in attaining it. 

Jack feels the heat creeping up from his chest. The blush burns his cheeks and sets his ears aflame. He cannot hide it. His body has betrayed him once again. Only this time, there is no excusing himself for the evening. No overcoat to hide beneath. He has no choice but to endure the humiliation of her knowing exactly just how much he wants her.

He is flesh and blood, after all. And no different than any other man. This point troubles him far more than the physical embarrassment. What he has strived to keep distant, separate, unique, has been lost. He believes he is now just one more in a sea of men pining for the Honourable Phryne Fisher, whose inevitable fate is to drown.

It is unusual for Phryne to go to such extremes to seduce a man (or woman for that matter). Especially one as seemingly unwilling as this. A small voice warns her that this is, perhaps, not just about seduction. But then, Jack Robinson is not just any man. She wants him more than she has ever wanted another. Wonders if she might not keep on wanting him, even after she has had him.

She senses the conflict swelling within him. It compels her to redouble her efforts.

"Phryne, please!" he swears. _This is too much._ It's all too much. He shifts his right hand from her flank and spreads it wide against her belly to halt her movement. "I can't..."

But when she gasps, her fingernails biting through his shirtsleeves, he realizes it was a tactical error of epic proportion. The meat of his palm is pressing, inadvertently, against the most intimate part of her.

He is mortified, afraid she might think he would take such a liberty when his intention was exactly the opposite. When he looks up into her face, he expects to find her devilish gaze upon him.

What he finds is worse. Her eyes are shut tight, the thick fringe of her lashes kiss the tops of her cheekbones. Her lips are parted, her neck is arched toward him in vulnerability. She is the picture of feminine divinity.

Reluctant to ruin the heavenly image in front of him, but knowing he must take command of himself, he eases his hand from her. He thinks it is better to do it slowly, has no wish to startle her. But the release of pressure allows her blood to surge through the tender flesh, engorging it with a need even fiercer than before. The moan that follows is desperate. And, bereft of his touch, her body follows along the path of his retreating hand. There is a sharp tug at his wrist, forcing his palm to slide against her. His fingers happen to be curled, causing his knuckles to nudge into her mound.

"Oh God, Jack! Don't stop!"

It takes Jack several breathless moments to wade through the desire that is flooding him. _I have to stop._ That's what he was trying to tell her... But he really can't stop because his cufflink is caught in the lace of her dress! He attempts to extract it. But the appearance of his other hand between them, fingers prodding and pinching at the embedded metal bar, forces her hands into his hair to hold him close.

She can't hear what he is saying over the drumbeat of her heart but feels his breath on her neck, the brush of his lips as he tries to explain, the tip of his nose prodding her jaw. The sensations drive her higher. Chasing her release, she rocks relentlessly against hands.

Jack tries to rationalize his way out of his predicament. Tells himself that they are more or less in public. _No, not helping._ Reminds himself how much trouble Phryne has gotten herself into as the alluring Lulu Lorita. No, the idea of Phryne in trouble makes his cock throb harder. Imagines what his Chief might say if he is discovered in his current position. _His current position..._ His mind lingers on that thought.

His current position is one in which he finds himself newly divorced, uncertain of moving past his failure, of loving or being able to be loved again. His current position is one in which he is is undeniably attracted to the single, finest, unofficial investigative partner he has ever had... Who also happens to be his closest friend and record-holder for breaking the most hearts in Melbourne and probably London, too. His current position is one in which this gorgeous, wickedly clever creature is writhing on his lap.

And yet he is still attempting to proclaim his innocence, to disown his desires. He wonders just how damaged he is if he can't give her this... If he won't give her this.

He doesn't wonder long.

Snaking his left arm around her, he spreads his fingers wide across her bottom. Gently, he presses his right palm back into her, tethering her in his grip. He rotates his wrist and taps his fingertips into her. When she keens over him, he is suddenly and overwhelmingly grateful for his abrupt change of heart. She knows her body intimately, he is sure... Expertly. Yet, she is greedy for for his touch. He enjoys it... Pleasuring her. Takes pride in the way her hips roll between the anchors of his hands, the sweat dripping off her jaw like jewels in the hazy red din. His curling fingers press as far as the taut fabric will allow and he feels her hold her breath. Just a second or two at first, then for longer the tension builds to an unbearable pitch.

She is close. He knows this and, even so, he is wholly unprepared when she comes. He expects a scene. Expects Phryne to be as loud and flamboyant in her orgasm as she is in her life. And she is... Sometimes. But what she is... this time... is utterly still. She is as still as a statue, her face cast in a silent wail, her hands immovable against the base of his skull. As if she had been turned to stone by a jealous deity. Utterly still... but for the pulse blossoming against his fingers.

Jack is enraptured. Whether by her beauty, or her grace, or her mercy, he isn't certain. All he knows is he doesn't want it to end. He tries to remember everything in that moment, to imprint it on his mind, the way her damp fringe is clinging to her forehead, the bite of lace against his skin, the salty taste of her sweat on his lips, the intimate scent of her surrounding him.

But these things are not the same as footy scores and doubloon foundry dates. Committing sensations to memory is a dangerous game. And his senses are already full of her. With no room left in his body for expansion, his thoughts begin to spiral out of control. He pictures that beneath her dress, she is sopping wet with desire. Considers the exact shade of pink she might be. Darker than the blush of her nipples. Imagines what she tastes like before she comes... And after. Like the Pacific Ocean, he is sure. Wonders if she would mind the callouses on his fingertips if he were to stroke her bare flesh, to tease and tickle until she begged him for more.

Phryne's voice rips him from his fantasy and sends a jolt to his groin. The sound of his name stretching devotedly over her lips is too much for Jack to bear. Too late, he recognizes the constricted feeling and curses himself while calling upon his maker in the same breath. His hips stutter beneath her and everything is obliterated in a white-hot light as his release seizes him with violent force.

He comes back to his body slowly, blearily. Feeling far too much like he is recovering from a blow to the head than a blow to the... Ahh... He's even too tired for puns.

But reality steadily seeps back into his skin as the wet, sticky feeling in his trousers jogs his brain into functioning. _Oh God!_ What has he done? Well, what has he done beyond proving that he has the self-discipline of a fourteen year old school boy?

He is blushing furiously as she frees his hand, wisely choosing to unfasten his cufflink from his shirt rather than attempting to untangle it from her dress. Sheepishly, he looks into her face and is stunned to see her sparkling back at him. This is not the smug, taunting look she wears while perched on the corner of his desk. She is looking at him as if she is seeing him for the first time. In a way, she is. It gives him the courage to find his voice.

"Phryne, I'm sorry..." he croaks, before a finger stops his apology short.

"I barely touched you."

Her voice is full of wonder.

Jack swallows nervously, uncertain of where this was going. He nods solemnly, acknowledging her assessment. Correct, as usual. "You were..." How can any word describe what he felt, watching her shatter by his hand? "You were sublime."

She curls her fingers around his jaw and leans down to place a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. His lips part instinctively but she wants to draw this out and so shifts her attention to the other side, lingering and nudging the skin until she feels it twitch and lift. She tilts his head in her hands so she can drop her lips to his philtrum, the tip of her tongue gently teasing his cupid's bow.

"Phryne," he breathes.

His voice clings to her skin like vapour. She kisses him slowly and in earnest, answering his unspoken plea. Over and over, until his tongue slides against hers, his wide, full mouth moving in rhythm, his hands edging beneath the hem of her dress. She has dreamt of kissing him again, after their stolen moment at Café Repliqué.

But her imaginings pale in comparison to the feeling of his lips burning between hers and it takes considerable restraint to keep her from taking him right there in the middle of the Imperial Club.

"Come home with me, Jack."

"I thought we were trapped here... " he gasps. "For better or worse."

She wriggles her nose at him and reaches for his left wrist, stealing a glance at his watch. "It's very late. The coast must be clear by now. Or else, my admirer will be far too drunk to be much of a challenge," she speculates, brushing her lips along his jaw. "You still owe me a gaudy night, Jack."

This time, Jack kisses her. It tastes bittersweet and she knows what his answer will be before he speaks.

"The midnight bell has already mocked us," he replies gently, knowing this will all look quite different by the light of day. "I have an early appointment with Mrs. Blunt to discuss her alibi for the evening in question." He takes Phryne's hands gently in his with more confidence than he feels, but has no regrets. _Please don't let this ruin us._ His lips twitch in a self-deprecating smile. "No doubt, I'll need all my strength."

He met her smirking gaze with one of his own, "For other reasons."

"Of course," she replies politely, if a little disappointedly, and shifts to remove herself from him.

"Phryne?"

"Yes, Jack?"

"Once we wrap up this case... I mean, I was thinking... Perhaps a day by the seaside?"

She smiles openly in sheer delight. "Muy bien."

 

 


End file.
